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THE VIATORIAN: •
VOL. XIII.
NOVEMBER, 1895.
i.
NO.3
Strange my thoughts while lonely sitting In my silent room; Past my window snowflakes flitting, Signs of summer's doom.
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While the snow is falling, drifting, Cov'ring roof and dome; Still mv thoughts are roaming, shifting, Stopping last at home. Ah! how fast in pleasant dreaming, This Thanksgiving eve, Childish pleasures, brightly gleaming, Round about me weave. There this feast was kept with glory From the morning's light, When with games and pleasant story All too soon came night.
And the good things-but, Oh! never Can I treat that part, For it puts a gnawing ever Just below my heart.
First to church, the sweet bells ringing, There the solemn mass; In our hearts thanksgiving singing. Every lad and lass.
Ah! how oft with merry laughing, Though their eyes were dim, Old folks ceased a while their quaffing, Friends to welcome in.
Then to mother's breakfast steaming, Oh! the pleasant sight; All things shining, brightly gleaming, Table cloth snow white.
Oh ! the friends, the merry greeting, Good old days gone past; Would that time were not so fleeting, Love would have them last.
But no more for me their blessing, Stilled is each sweet sound; And the mem'ry, though caressing, Breathes an awe profound. For the friends of home are scattered, Hushed is mirth and song ; And the staff of home is shattered, Mother dear is gone. But no more I'll sit a-weeping, It was God's own way; And I know there ' II be a meeting, Some Thanksgiving Day. J.H.N.
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